A Woman of Sense
by algyy
Summary: Constance Hardbroom and Imogen Drill head to the coast for a week of sun, sand, sea...and squabbles.
1. Chapter 1

**_Constance Hardbroom:_**

It is not often that I behave in a way which could be considered even mildly eccentric, let alone out and out mad. I am, generally speaking, a woman of sense.

On this occasion, however, I believe I may actually have taken leave of my senses.

It is the last day of term; by some miracle, the academy is still standing, and furthermore is on its way towards being blissfully empty. Any other time, I would be readying myself for a peaceful holiday, alone, content, in control, and with plenty of books to read. Nothing could be better for a woman like me.

But on this occasion, it is, alas, not to be - on account of the aforementioned leave-taking of my senses.

Because on this occasion, I am going on holiday. To Cornwall. With my most _esteemed_ \- my pen drips sarcasm - my most _esteemed_ colleague, one Miss Drill.

It has come about by accident, I suppose one could say, though I am not typically the sort of woman who has accidents. It was originally to be a holiday for all the teachers - an insane proposition, as I did not hesitate to inform them all, several times - but then it turned out (how convenient) that the others all had other commitments, and now it is just me.

And her.

I have packed, and I am ready. I have clothes, toiletries, and plenty of books. On the top of my suitcase is a recently published treatise by a prestigious witchcraft authority; the subject, the essential incompatibility of witchcraft and a love of nature. I know that it will annoy her if she sees it - she is always prating of the wonderfulness of nature - and I intend to place it somewhere where she definitely will see it.

And why do I care so much for annoying her? Perhaps it is because she annoys me. It's bad enough that she is not a witch, but on top of that, she is too...too what? Too _perky_ , too _friendly_ , too eminently _reasonable_ , too _smiley_ , too blonde, too pretty - yes, pretty; she must be, for I have seen how every man who has ever visited the academy looks at her. She encourages them. I give her ten minutes, if that, this week, before she falls prey to the inane charms of some immature young man. It will be the camping trip all over again. I can still see them now, stealthily holding hands by the campfire, talking and giggling away together like a couple of love-struck adolescents. Whatever happened to that fellow, I wonder. Dare I hope it was something unpleasant?

"Ah!" She bursts into the room, all enthusiasm and casual clothing. "You're ready! Are you?"

"Yes, Miss Drill, I am ready. Aren't you?"

"I...well..." She's flustered; I feel a flicker of satisfaction. "Almost! I'm almost ready! Just hang on a minute..."

I watch coolly as she dashes hectically from the room; time elapses, and she dashes back in, carrying bags and looking flushed.

"Right, I'm ready." She says it with an air of immense satisfaction, as if she has overcome terrible odds and achieved the nigh-on impossible. She looks me up and down. "Dare I hope you are going to remove your hat?"

"It is this, Miss Drill, or the bonnet. The choice is yours."

She sighs. "You are leaving your broomstick behind at least, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes." I'm not, of course; I have turned it temporarily into an umbrella, but she doesn't need to know that. A witch does not leave her broomstick at home, or her hat. It's simply not done. She would know that, if she weren't such a silly, clueless, _normal_ sort.

"Well, then." Her look is strangely challenging, but nothing compared to the sort of glare I can summon when I choose. "Shall we go?"

I nod coolly. "As you wish."

And so, the holiday begins - much good may it do either of us.

 **Imogen Drill:**

I have never seen Constance Hardbroom in a car before. I wonder if she's ever _been_ in a car before. She sits bolt upright (of course she does) in the passenger seat of the car I've hired for the week, and regards the motorway with the sort of cool, unflinching gaze which she normally reserves for misbehaving first-years. At least she's taken her hat off, if only because it wouldn't fit in under the roof. I'm sure she won't hesitate to put it back on again as soon as we stop anywhere.

We drive in silence - quite a stony silence, in her case. I strongly suspect that when we do talk to each other, it will only be to argue.

And yet, I feel oddly happy, happy to be here with her, happy at the prospect of a week in her company, even if we will do nothing but squabble during it.

I may as well be honest. I have...how can I put it?...a bit of a thing for her. A crush sort of thing. Maybe even a love sort of thing. Who wouldn't, if they knew her? I couldn't tell you how it started; it feels as if it's been there forever, a little corner of my heart reserved just for her.

Oh, of course I've tried to deny it; I know nothing could ever come of it. Quite apart from anything else, I'm convinced she absolutely hates me. I don't always _like_ her. She drives me mad.

Would I find her so annoying if I didn't love her?

I must be out of my mind going on holiday with her - yet I can't deny that my heart leapt when I realised it was going to be just the two of us. Why? It's not as if anything could ever _happen_. She's Constance Hardbroom; I'm me; never shall the twain meet, except maybe to exchange harsh words.

"I thought we might stop off and have lunch in a pub on the way," I break the silence to say.

She looks at me askance, as if I have suggested we stop off at a cheap hotel and book a room for an hour. Shut up, brain.

"I do not frequent that sort of establishment."

I sigh. "It's not a...den of iniquity. It's only like a restaurant. We've got to have lunch somewhere."

She gives me the look she usually reserves for particularly idiotic students. "Very well, then. It is your holiday as well. Carry on, Miss Drill - to the pub!"

Well, that's not something I ever thought I'd hear Constance Hardbroom say.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews for Chapter 1! I've been reading some of the other fanfics on here and I've got to say, there are a lot of talented people here with some very inventive ideas for the cast of Cackle's Academy. Lots of fun to read! Okay, then, on with Chapter 2, in which HB discovers coast paths and wishes she hadn't._**

 ** _Constance Hardbroom:_**

Our holiday is proving torturous, much as expected. We partake of lunch in a ghastly location filled to bursting with crowds of the normal, who all gawp quite unnecessarily at me (Miss Drill at length requests me to remove my hat). They chat and laugh at unnecessary volumes, and fiddle with small electronic devices in a way that makes my fingers itch.

But the ordeal is survived, and we set forth once more. For all her much-vaunted map-reading skills, Miss Drill very soon gets lost, and it is a long and tiresome journey to the coast; many a landmark is passed more than once. Our accommodation for the week is a small cottage in the midst of an equally small village. Miss Drill exclaims that it is all pleasant and quaint, and isn't the view wonderful? I would of course never admit to such a weakness, but I think I am rather missing home.

Then, for reasons no doubt known only to herself, she insists on taking me out for a walk. Thus the evening finds me perched precariously on a preposterously windswept coast path, Miss Drill twittering inanely about the joys of nature and exercise at my side. The path is narrow, and unreasonably steep; I should not like to admit it, but I am actually, at this precise moment, stuck.

In my defence, witches are not designed to walk along coast paths. We have broomsticks; we do not walk.

I shan't tell her I am stuck, of course. I am sure I will be able to get down in a moment.

She, of course, is as fleet-footed as a mountain goat, her trainer-clad feet springing nimbly over the uneven path. She is not even out of breath, though she has paused to admire the view. The brisk sea air has coloured her cheeks a delicate pink; her short hair is ruffled by the wind. She is looking pretty again. She does that far too often. At least there are no men around to be ensnared by her.

For goodness' sake. How am I ever going to get down off this rock without breaking my neck?

"Constance! Are you stuck?" she calls, all irritating perkiness and prettiness.

"No, of course not. I am merely...admiring the view." A foolish lie; she knows I'm not the sort to admire views. I told her so not ten minutes ago.

The corners of her mouth twitch. "You're stuck, aren't you?"

In a moment I shall vanish. It will serve her right.

"I told you to wear walking boots." She bounces back up the path towards me, all agility and jogging bottoms.

"These _are_ my walking boots." Well. I walk in them usually, and they serve me very well. But then, Cackle's Academy is hardly rough terrain.

She offers me her hand, the impertinent woman.

"Put your right foot down here," she says, tapping a nearby stone with her own foot, as if I were some physically incompetent first-year.

"No, thank you, Miss Drill, I am quite happy here."

She is struggling not to laugh. I do not take kindly to being laughed at. "You can't stay on a coast path forever."

I fold my hands, a preliminary to disappearing. She realises what I am about to do, and grabs my arm. I glare at her, of course, but she remains attached.

"Don't be so defeatist," she says.

Oh, defeatist, am I? If only she _knew_...! The clueless, impertinent, magicless little...

I take her hand in a vicelike grip, and step down onto the path. The movement is hardly graceful, but at least it is made.

"Come along, then," I say, "To Trebarwith Strand, is it, that we're headed? Lead on!"

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist a challenge," she says, with an impertinent grin. Then away she trots, so carelessly confident, showing off no doubt; and I, a prisoner of my own pride, shuffle slowly along behind.

 _ **Imogen Drill:**_

She touched my hand, she touched my hand...more than that, she gripped it and nearly broke my fingers. I will treasure the moment, painful as it was, forever.

I walk quickly to disguise my reaction, almost leaving her behind. My heart is pounding frantically; I feel like a schoolgirl who has been given a smile by her crush.

I don't know how she makes it to Trebarwith Strand and back in those boots; I suspect her of using magic now and then, when my back is turned. Much to my disappointment, she doesn't have any need to take my hand again.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Imogen Drill_**

"Miss Drill, I was here first. The bathroom is mine."

"The only reason you're here first is because you barged me out of your way. Let _me_ go first. I won't take long."

"Certainly not. You will take forever, _primping_ and _preening_ like you do..."

"I don't primp! Or preen!"

"Well, lifting weights, admiring your own muscles, whatever it is you do in there."

"Well, _I'm_ not waiting for _you_ to wash all that hair!"

"Miss Drill, I will ask you one more time. Remove yourself from the bathroom door."

"No, I won't."

The holiday is taking its toll on us, I admit, and it's only the first full day. But it's a dismal, grey day, pouring relentlessly with rain; she hasn't forgiven me for making her walk a coast path last night; and there is only one bathroom. Which is currently proving something of a bone of contention.

"Miss Drill, if you don't get out of my way, I will have no choice but to turn you into a toad."

"You can't do that! What about the Witches' Code?"

"It would be only temporary, and no one would know."

" _I'd_ know! And if you think you can just _intimidate_..." I turn to open the bathroom door and dash inside; suddenly, she vanishes. The next thing I know, the bathroom door slams shut on me; I hear the sound of the bolt being pushed across, followed by running water.

"Constance! Constance, that's not fair!"

" _Life_ isn't fair, Miss Drill."

I am forced to admit defeat. At least I'm not a toad. I slump down on a nearby stool to wait my turn.

 _ **Constance Hardbroom**_

I am sat at the dining-room table sipping a cup of tea and looking out at the rain - I dare to hope that such weather will dampen her ardour for coast path walking, but one never knows with her - when a piercing shriek rents the air. I can hardly refrain from rolling my eyes.

"What now?" I call.

"What have you done to the water, Constance?" she hollers back.

"I haven't _done_ anything to the water, Miss Drill. Why on earth would I want to _do_ things to water?"

There is silence for a moment, then she says, "Oh, I realise what's happened. It's an electric shower. Constance! Can you put a pound in the meter?"

"Can I put a what where?"

"A _pound_ , Constance, a pound coin! Put it in the meter! It's in the hallway!"

Does she think I am her personal slave?

"Do it yourself," I respond.

"Constance, I _can't_. I've got nothing on except a headful of shampoo!"

I stroll at a leisurely pace into the hallway. "Where is it?"

"In one of the cupboards - near the door. Are there any pound coins there?"

"I can't see any." I confess I am not looking very hard. An electric meter, indeed! I haven't used electricity for years.

"You'll have to get one out of my purse. It's in the kitchen, by the kettle. Or did I put it in the dining-room? Oh..." There is the sound of irate footfalls on the stairs, and she hoves into view clad only in a towel of frankly insufficient size to cover her expanses of tanned limbs. There is a mass of froth on her head. She leaves wet footprints behind her as she pads out to the kitchen, recoiling visibly from the chill of the tiled floor. I realise I am staring at her legs, and quickly look away. I am not entirely sure why I am blushing.

Her towel slips as she fiddles with the electric meter, and she just manages to catch it. For some reason, my face is on fire and my heart is pounding. I wonder why. No doubt it is caused by annoyance.

I leave her to her electric meter, and return to my cup of tea.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Imogen Drill:_**

I stand by the dining-room window, looking out at the dismal, grey expanse of rain. It's been throwing it down for hours now, and shows no sign of stopping. Typical British holiday weather, in other words.

"Maybe it's getting a bit brighter over there," I say, optimistically.

She is reading a hefty leather-bound book, and does not look up. "I doubt it," she says. There's no need for her to sound quite so pleased.

Or to look quite so attractive while being the most annoying person on the planet.

I pace the length of the cottage restlessly.

"Miss Drill, sit down. You are like a caged animal."

"I don't like being stuck indoors. You know me - I like to be out and about!"

"Put a coat on, then."

"All the footpaths I want to walk will be waterlogged beyond redemption. I don't mind a bit of rain, but this is a deluge."

I suddenly espy a pile of leaflets on a low table, and pounce on them, hoping desperately to find inspiration for something - anything! - to do.

"Oh - here's a place I thought we could go. The Museum of Witchcraft in Boscastle."

She sighs, and lays down her book. I think she is finding me irritating. Well, what's new? "And what's that? A celebration of old hags with warts and pointy noses, or the sort of superstitious nonsense that Miss Crotchet enjoys?"

"See for yourself." I pass the leaflet over. She glances at it; a flicker of interest passes across her face, and is quickly banished again.

"Well," she says, "I suppose we might as well. If it will stop your infernal pacing."

I'm already pulling on my coat.

 **Constance Hardbroom:**

"It's nice when we actually get along for more than five minutes at a time." She says it suddenly, impulsively, as we sit drinking tea in a Boscastle café.

"I would hardly go that far," I say, "We are tolerating each other merely."

She only smiles.

I suppose she has a point. Our colleagues would be amazed if they could see us behaving so civilly. I expected her to be tiresome as we perused the Museum of Witchcraft; I expected the Museum itself to be tiresome. But it was interesting: and she and I, having travelled a certain distance in silence, at last began to talk, naturally enough, about the magic art - and if there is one subject on which I can converse with confidence, it is that.

She proved surprisingly interested. Strange to think that we have never discussed witchcraft before, living all year at a witches' academy. I suppose we are usually too busy bickering over the relative merits of Potions versus P. E.

If I am completely honest, I must confess that I have almost enjoyed talking to her. She was certainly a more receptive audience than some of my classes.

"Well," she says, brightly, now, "What shall we do next? Walk about, have a look around? We could walk down to the harbour and look at the sea."

For some reason, I find myself agreeing. Perhaps the Cornish air is turning my brain.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Imogen Drill:**_

I love hearing her talk about magic. She loses some of her usual stiff and stilted demeanour, her usual sharp edge. She grows almost enthusiastic - a strange word to associate with her, cool and harsh as she usually is. I suppose magic is her passion as well as her profession. It's a feeling I can understand.

If I was one of her students, I would never have any trouble paying attention in lessons.

She talks on magic-related subjects as we walk around Boscastle in the rain (she is sheltering under a voluminous black umbrella; I have the hood of my pink anorak up. We must look a strange pair). I love how impassioned she grows; I am stunned at the breadth of her knowledge. She seems to be up-to-date with all the latest discoveries. I begin to think she must be wasted as a teacher. I wonder if that is why she sometimes seems so angry - she is resentful at chances missed. But no, that can't be right - she seems to genuinely love and care for the academy, somewhere beneath that frosty demeanour. She is a strange creature, a perfectionist without particular ambition. I have often wondered what sort of life she has led, to make her how she is; I remember that awful inspector woman who had once been her tutor, how afraid of her she was. It startled me at the time; I had never thought of Constance being afraid. What goes on in that mind of hers? I wonder. It occurs to me how little any of us really know her.

It occurs to me all over again that I love her, and my heart almost aches with it.

Today is like a day out of time, a day when we are not quite ourselves. I never want it to end.

At last we head back to the cottage. The rain has finally stopped; the sun is setting over the distant sea, and the sky is orange with its dying light. The air is wonderfully clear and brisk.

Feeling suddenly bold, I suggest that we walk to the pub in the next village, and have our evening meal there.

For a moment she hesitates, and I think maybe our wonderful day is going to end hideously after all.

"Will we need to walk along a coast path?" she asks, at length, and I nearly laugh.

"No. You can get to it along the road. It's not far."

She sighs as if she is doing me a favour. "Very well, Miss Drill. The pub it is."

 **Constance Hardbroom:**

I am not entirely sure what has come over me. Perhaps it is the bottle of wine we shared over supper. But I feel peculiarly buoyant as we walk back to the cottage by the light of Miss Drill's pocket torch; I wonder if this is what people call happiness. It is the sort of feeling I generally associate with the making of a successful potion, the casting of a difficult spell, an hour among the books.

I rather suspect Miss Drill of being a little tipsy, though we only had two glasses each. She is rather unduly cheerful, and keeps giggling. It is almost endearing.

All my usual worries and neuroses seem pleasingly far away. Whether it is the change of air or the wine, I can hardly say. I feel a little frightened without them, a little unsteady, as if I am not quite myself.

We make it back to the cottage, and stumble a little through the darkened rooms. Miss Drill flicks at the light-switch, to no avail.

"The meter's run out again," she says, "Either that, or we've got a power-cut."

"This," I say, "Is why I prefer candles."

She gropes her way to the electricity meter and peers into it by the thin gleam of her torch. I remember her standing there this morning in a towel, and feel suddenly strangely hot.

"The meter's still half-full," she says, "It must be a power-cut. It has been very bad weather today, and it's overhead power cables here. Constance..." She is suddenly hesitant. "Constance, do you think you could...manage some light...you know, magically?"

The sigh I give is merely for form's sake; it is a simple enough spell. In a moment, the hallway is aglow with a gentle flickering light reminiscent of candlelight, so much better, really, than that horrible bright electric light. She looks strangely pretty in it.

What a strange thing to think!

For a long moment, we stand and look at each other in the half-light, as if we had forgotten what the other looked like - or perhaps as if we had never really noticed in the first place.

And then, quite suddenly, and I need hardly say unexpectedly - she leans forward and kisses me.

 _ **The next chapter is going to be rated M, but is probably more of a T - but, if you didn't like that sort of thing, you probably wouldn't have read this far. :)**_

 _ **If you're enjoying this story (even a little :)), you may enjoy my other story, "Dancing with Vampires". It's a crossover between The Worst Witch and German musical Tanz der Vampire, but you don't need any knowledge of the musical. And who could refuse the combination of Constance Hardbroom and vampires?**_


	6. Chapter 6

**_Imogen Drill:_**

I can't believe what I've just done.

I pull away immediately, stammering out ridiculous excuses, sure she is going to turn me into a toad at any moment. But then I feel her strong slender fingers curl around my wrist; she pulls me to her almost roughly, and presses her lips urgently to mine.

It is a desperate kiss, a kiss I at least have longed for and dreamt of for a very long time - though I could never have imagined it would feel this good. One of my hands grips her shoulder, the other claws at her back; she pulls me closer to her, touches my tongue with her own. It is all so clumsy and yet so perfect. I think the ecstatic moan must be mine; I realise suddenly that it is hers.

I am afraid I must be dreaming. I am afraid she will pull away at any moment. I feel I must make the most of it before she does; my hands move fretfully over her body, wanting to memorise every inch of it, and my lips barely leave hers for a moment.

I feel suddenly as if I am knocked off my feet, thrown sideways; my head reels, and I cling to her. Only when I fall backwards and find myself on a bed do I realise what has happened; she vanished, and took me with her. I never even knew that was possible.

She bends over me as I lie on the bed; I feel her hands beneath my top, and gasp at their coldness. But then they work higher, and I gasp for other reasons entirely, arch my back, murmur her name.

I feel the magic she uses, then - how is that possible, when I am not even a witch? But I feel it, like a rush of sparks and a sudden sensation of dizziness, and I realise that we are both naked - typical Constance, I think, dimly, straight to the point, not one for wasting time - doesn't she realise that anticipation is part of the pleasure? - God, she's annoying - God, she's lovely - and her hair is loose, and cascading down over her shoulders, brushing my bare skin as she leans in for another kiss.

Any minute now I will surely wake up, though no dream ever felt quite so good. Everything has happened so fast, so wonderfully, so dizzyingly; I feel I ought to stop and get my bearings, sort out of my thoughts. I feel I should say something, ask her what she thinks she's doing, why, why now, why tonight, why at all...but there are things to do which seem infinitely more important.

I am no longer in any fit state to recognise the different sensations that follow so quickly upon one another's heels. I want to kiss and touch her all over; I want to make her mine, even if it is just this once; I nearly swoon to feel her bare thighs against mine. And then her hand, oh God, her _hand_...

I am losing it, I really am. I cry her name again and again; to my amazement, she murmurs mine in response. I've never heard her call me by my first name before.

The moments stretch into a long, aching infinity, an eternity of almost unbearable pleasure. And then presses close to me, moves her hand (oh God her _hand_!), murmurs, "Come _on_!" in a voice I've never heard her use before - and I am done for, sighing, moaning, half-sobbing, calling her name.

I don't know for how long we lie there in each other's arms, exhausted and ecstatic. Time has lost all meaning.

At last she speaks.

"On reflection," she says, in her usual calm and measured tones, "Though I was not consciously aware of it, I have to say that I have wanted to do that for a very long time."

The world is suddenly a wonderful place - and, God help me, I love her more than ever before.

 **Constance Hardbroom:**

In due course, I shall regret all of this, I am sure. Voices from the past - one voice in particular, my old tutor's voice - will return to tell me how wrong it all is, how weak, how sinful. My conscience will drive me to the brink of insanity. I will quarrel with her in the end, I am sure, and drive her away.

I have loved very few in my time - and when I have loved, I have been very adept at making sure they could never love me.

But for now, tonight, this week - I feel reckless. I feel loved. I feel I am on the brink of something wonderful.

She sleeps at my side. How beautiful she is. What a fool I was not to realise it before, not to see how much I was growing to love her, to try to hide away from it.

Then again, perhaps I was just trying to save us both. It is too late now, anyway.

I curl up beside her, pulling her into my arms. She murmurs inaudibly in her sleep.

Let the future take care of itself. Let heartache come, if it must. For now, it is just me, and Imogen.

As I said before, it is not often that I behave in a way which could be considered even mildly eccentric, let alone out and out mad. I am, generally speaking, a woman of sense.

On this occasion, however, I believe I may actually have taken leave of my senses - and how very, very sweet a leave-taking it is.

-THE END-


End file.
